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How to Help Your Mother Mourn When Grief Is Everywhere
Loss is loss, even against an unprecedented backdrop
Update 6/7/22: Level has a new home. You can read this article and other new articles by visiting LEVELMAN.com.
Don’t cry before the ambulance comes. You will need to report the time of death to the hospice nurse on the phone. 10:15 a.m. The first nurse who came to install the bed for convalescent patients left one hour ago.
You hold more than one phone and at least two hearts. His body rests upstairs from the work it has done, completing the American dream. His body, from Spanish Town, Jamaica, lies still. His body, which you will later name “a vessel,” knowing that, to your mother, it is more.
The first EMT asks about symptoms. You don’t process the meaning of the question.
“Is anyone in the house experiencing a cough or shortness of breath?”
“No. He’s Stage 4 cancer, multiple myeloma. He had labored breathing but no cough.” The second EMT is a woman, shorter. They wear masks and are young, their bright eyes offset by vigilant motion.
You rattle off vital signs, medical terms you learned from your aunt last week. You are a witness to your life. You don’t get to be your body. You are reporting.
